Scotty Doesn't Know
by woodbyne
Summary: "Scotty doesn't know That Francis and I Do it in my car every Sunday. He tells him he's in church But he doesn't go, Still, he's on his knees And Scotty doesn't know." ScotFr/FrUK. Angst, cheating, swearing and gratuitous sex.


**This is what happens when I listen to Lustra's Scotty Doesn't Know on loop and I mishear Fiona as Francis. Bad things. **

_Scotty doesn't know  
That Francis and I  
Do it in my car every Sunday.  
He tells him he's in church  
But he doesn't go,  
Still, he's on his knees  
And Scotty doesn't know._

Stealing my brother's boyfriend is probably the lowest I have ever sunk. But what could I do? Francis was lonely, and as much as I hate to indulge that Frog anything, I must admit that his company isn't entirely offensive, and he's a wicked shag.

Francis was … Resistant to my advances at first. Who can blame him? When Scott was out, I'd slide close, make suggestive comments… It's actually a miracle that he didn't tell that kine-fondling lout about it, so I can only assume he found the illicit nature of my proposals intriguing.

Yes, I am a bad person. I know this. Scott and I have never been friends – the first time I was brought home from the hospital he dropped me on the floor and told our parents to take me back. It was all downhill from there – but I know that if this ever comes out into the open, I will ruin any chance I have ever had of a relationship with my brother. He will never forgive me. Francis, he might forgive, because for some reason he actually loves the tosser. Not that I do. I'm just doing this to get back at Scott. So what if he finds out? That man is responsible for three broken ribs, one broken arm and more concussions than I can remember. Of course, I gave as good as I got. I'm not as thick-set as he is, but I'm no weakling. Ask Francis.

"Aren't you supposed to be in church?" I pant, snapping my hips forward and making the Frenchman moan as he clings to the headrests in the back of my car. He's on his knees in the back seat, legs spread as I pound my cock into his arse. His answer is some kind of mewled, mixed-up French, which it always surprises people to know that I speak fluently (There's nothing as fun as insulting a Frenchman in his own tongue. They always look positively mortified) but I still didn't understand. I think there was a, 'yes,' in there somewhere, and definitely a, 'you bastard.' Was that an, 'Oh, God?' Sounded like it.

"Then why don't you pray while you're on your knees?" I hiss quietly in his ear. I asked him how Scott is in bed once. Francis told me that for all he's a big, strong lad, he's a gentle giant. Me? I'm outwardly respectable, but they say I cheat at cards. Half right. I cheat. Just with Scott's bit of ass. At least Francis can cook so that that lunatic kilt-monkey doesn't kill himself eating sheep-gut. But Francis is a passionate person. He doesn't just need all that namby-pamby romantic lovemaking, much as he may like it. If you love them, fuck them like you hate them. I'm not saying I'm in love with Francis. I'm just saying that I'm fucking him like I hate him.

"Pray for me, Francis," I groan, "_Our Father who art in heaven_," the words are prompting, said in time to my thrusts. Long, sweaty blond locks bob as he nods his head. His teeth are sunk into the car seat.

"_Notre_- Ahh! _Notre P__è__re, qui es aux cieux_," Francis' voice is low and rough, punctuated by gasps and moans that spill from his lips in time to the rhythm of my body, "_Que t-ton nom- Oh! __Mon Dieu~! – soit sanctif- sanctifié, Que- Que ton règne vienne, Que ta volonté s-soit faite suuuuuuur l-la terre c-comme au cie-ciel."_

Never. Never before Francis had I thought I would be turned on by the sound of someone speaking French. Forbidden fruit, I guess. I'm actually really surprised that he made it through a whole verse. I'm obviously not doing my job properly. I thrust harder and faster. I want him to shudder and call out for me as he cums on the iron-grey polyester of the standard issue weave of car upholstery. It quite astounds me that he keeps going into the second verse,

"_D-Donne-nous aujourd'h-hui no-otre – merde! _Arthur ! Again_ ! – p-paaain de ce jour~! Pardonne nous ah ! nos offenses ! Com- Comme nous pardonnons ah-aussi à ceux q-qui nous oh-ont offensés _!" The way his muscles clench and tighten around my cock as he cums is truly wonderful and a groan my own release into his shaking body. He never has any bruises from me. Sometimes he'll come to me with a fresh love-bite courtesy of my pig of a brother and I'll remark him, making him mine. A new humiliation for Scott if he ever knew.

Francis goes shopping on Wednesdays (That's when he has time off work) for three hours, He only shops for two. The third hour is spent in my bed with his knees over my shoulders and his heels to the ceiling while he tosses his head back and screams my name. I love the way he screams my name. The way that stupid, sexy accent of his wraps around it. The way it peters out into a low, satisfied moan when I cum inside him. I even love the way he purrs it in my ear when he's after a fuck.

A mobile rings while we're rutting. It's La Marseillaise so it must be Francis'. And it must be Scott. He's probably telling him he'll be home soon. Probably asking if there's anything he needs from the shop.

"Answer it! " My voice rasps as I ram home into his prostate and he keens,

"_Oui! Oui! S'il te plait, mon ange_, not when I'm on the phone," he protests, picking it up and breathing heavily, "_Salut, cher_," I love how I'm his angel but my stupid fucking brother is only his _dear_. Though on occasion, I have been called _L'ange diabolique. _I'll be his diabolical angel. I keep my own moans of pleasure quiet as I lean over him, my face beside his as my chest presses against his back and my hips rock my cock into his ass.

"_Non_, I'm just out for a run, _cher_, I'll be home soon," he promises and I slam into him, biting my lip to keep from crying out. I just heard that stupid arsehole;

'_Don' tire yerself oot, pet lamb_,' he coos in that disgusting brogue that he got living in the highlands for fifteen years (in which I never saw him. Until he moved down here two years ago with a gorgeous Frenchman on his arm. God. The second I saw Francis, I knew I wanted him), '_Ah've a su'prise fir ye._'

Francis can't help but moan, and I know it's all because of me. I want to laugh. Scotty's Francis might be a docile little lamb, but my Francis is a _wolf_, "Oh, _cher_," he says breathlessly, "If that's what I think it is…"

'_Save yer energy fir t'night, lamb_,' the notes of lust in his voice disgust me. I hate having to share Francis with anyone. He's mine, damn it! I hate my brother more than anyone in this world simply because he gets to wake up beside man I love every day. Francis hangs up and I thrust relentlessly into the willing Frenchman below me until his seed stains my sheets and I stain the inside of a condom. One day I'll tell Scott straight to his face that I've been fucking his boyfriend for a year and a half now and he likes it better with me.

Francis is actually a little taller than me, a little broader as well. I almost but not quite expected it when he pushed me up onto the bonnet of the car in a view-point parking lot and spread my legs like the wings of a butterfly. With my trousers hanging off of one ankle, I felt completely exposed. But Francis whispers endearments in my ears. He promises me that he loves me back; that he'll leave Scott for me at the end of this month and I give in. I sigh and gasp and moan as he penetrates me. We should be fucking like teenagers, but instead he's taking his time. We're not fucking, we're dancing and it feels so good. He really is great in the sack. I can honestly say that the best sex of my life happened when Francis Bonnefoy made love with me on the hood of my car in a vacant parking lot.

Two weeks I haven't seen him. Two _weeks_. I've been going out of my fucking mind. I'm going crazy without him. Even if we're not getting naked, I just want to be with him. The way he holds his pinkie finger out when he drinks his espresso _just_ to mock me. Everything about him is teasing and smug and superior and I want it _all_.

Finally! Francis, Francis, Francis! He's home alone and he calls me over. I broke every speed limit known to God and man on the way there. When I get there, I barely wait for him to open the door before I'm on him, Kissing, licking, sucking, filling fucking, loving every single centimetre of his body. I fucking love Francis Bonnefoy. Maybe this started out as getting back at Scott for being such a patronising shit for my entire life, but I couldn't give a good God damn about him anymore. I just want Francis all to myself. I even feel sorry for Scott. He doesn't deserve the glorious Frenchman keening _my_ name but he still got to taste him.

"Oh, God, yes! Francis! O-ooh _Fuck_FrancisIloveyou! Yes!" Words fall from my lips like kisses onto his face as he pants and writhes on the hall carpet beneath me.

"Ah! Ah! Arthur! _Mon Dieu! Trop plus ! Je t'aime aussi, mon A-aaa-ange_ !"

The front door is still open behind us as we rut on the beige entryway carpet. Francis is chanting his love for me over and over again and I'm so lost in the paradise of his body that I don't notice the shadow that falls across my bare back. At least, not until a thick Scottish accent cuts through the hot air of sex with the snow-cold of betrayal,

"Francis?" he sounds pathetic and looks even worse. There's a bunch of roses on the floor where he dropped them, "_Arthur_?"

I have a black eye, cuts on my face from being hit with roses, a broken nose and bruised ribs (the ones he broke) but I also have Francis and my heart glows with happiness as I snake my arms around my lover. My lover and no-one else's. There are my marks across his shoulders and my cum in his arse. Later, when he wakes up in my bed, we're going to take a shower together. Then I'm going to wrap him in my towel and kiss him. And when I get home from work, I'll bring him lilies, because unlike my idiot brother, I know that those are his favourite flowers. Roses are just for his latest line of clothes. He's having a flower inspired range. Roses and lilies.

I feel a bit sorry for my idiot brother (He's never going to speak to me again and if he ever sees me again he'll kill me. As far as he's concerned; he doesn't have a brother named Arthur. I think the rest of our family may feel the same) he loved Francis too, after all. But Francis is happiest with me, so surely that's what Scott would want. Besides.

Scotty had to know.


End file.
